


how they became

by manbunjon



Series: cigarettes and coffee [3]
Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: You had told him your name. He had told you his. You wrote your phone number down on a beer stained napkin at the bar and slid it into his hand, fixing him with that million dollar smile. He tried not to tell you he wanted to marry you.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Series: cigarettes and coffee [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551649
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	how they became

**Author's Note:**

> **requested by anon:** "for your flip series would you ever do how flip and the reader met? hopefully in a meet cute."
> 
> each fic can be written as a stand alone work, but they’re all part of the same collection “cigarettes and coffee” about the lives of flip zimmerman and the reader :)

If there was one thing to be said about Flip Zimmerman, it was that he was organised. 

Every day when he was a kid he’s wake up just as his father was going out the front door. No alarm or nothing, just suddenly awake, like his little body knew it was time to get the day going. It kept on that way all through middle and high school, even when his dad lost his job at the plant and started spending his days nursing flat beers before some game shows on the TV. By the time he joined the military, and eventually left the army, structure and order came naturally to him. He liked the routine, the regiment. 

He likes rising wish the sun and having coffee brewing and eggs frying before the birds even have a chance to begin their song. He likes ducking out of work for a smoke break just in time to see the uniformed kids from the elementary school across from the precinct spill out into the playground and start up the games he hasn't thought of for decades. He likes reading that morning’s paper over lunch at his cramped desk.

But most of all— he likes how much you throw off his schedule. 

He likes that about you, likes that he can’t predict you completely, even after all this time. Likes that you're still capable of surprising him, even after he thought he had memorised every single thing about you. 

He likes that he doesn’t know when you’ll bounce up to him, all perky and mischievous, and lean in to whisper something in his ear that will throw a monkey wrench in his plans for the day. He likes when he goes to make Saturday morning breakfast and finds you already awake and working on some new recipe one of your friends had sent you, or when he looked up from his side of the bed to find you standing in the doorway wearing something lacy and see-through that you’d seen in one of those magazines you liked so much. 

Hell, Flip had even started to pick some of those up for you from the corner store, catching all sorts of looks from the cashiers as he checked out with just the magazine and a couple untouched packs of his brand. The magazines were silly, even you knew that, and you both knew you did not need to do that thing on page thirteen in order to "please your man." But they brought a flush to your cheeks and a shy smile to your face and that was all Flip really cared about.

You sat beside him on his couch after he handed off the magazine and you marveled up at him with your big doe eyes, like he had just brought home a diamond necklace or something. You let him reach over and take your hand, squeeze your thigh, let him pull you up against him so you could tuck yourself into his side and he could see those dirty cartoons that made you blush so pretty. 

Slowly it became the highlight of his week, bringing you home those dumb magazines. 

Flip had wanted you from the very first time he ever clapped eyes on you, when you had been swaying on that little stage at the front of the bar, holding the microphone too close to your lips as you stood arm in arm with a girl much drunker than you as you two sang that awful song. 

People had laughed at you, had shouted out things at you that made Flip clench his jaw and stare boldly over his shoulder at the hecklers, hoping the murder in his eyes was plainly visible. It made him want to get in a fight for you, made him want to pull his badge out of his back pocket and charge then with something. 

But somehow that had all gone away away when you had looked out into the crowd and let your eyes fall on him, your cheeks flushing at the start you had felt in your chest, the smile that played at your lips growing wider. You had stayed watching him for the whole song and he didn’t know why, didn’t know what he had done to deserve that honour. 

But he didn’t look away from you either. 

When the song ended he had prayed you’d do another one, prayed to the God he wasn’t always sure of that you’d give him another excuse to gaze up at you. But you had already been jumping down from the stage, flushing, supporting your friend in your arms like she was a toddler just starting to walk, and his head had sunk when he saw you were headed to the door. 

But then you had come back, and Flip had found himself looking around to see what you had left behind, you _must_ have left something behind. But you had caught his eye then, reeling him in like some sort of tractor beam, and he had gotten up in the middle of the conversation he had been having with Jimmy and come toward you, unable to take his eyes off you.

You had smiled up at him as he leaned against the bar, doing his best to look nonchalant even when his heart was hammering against the concave of his chest. You had told him your name. He had told you his. You wrote your phone number down on a beer stained napkin you picked up off the bar and he tried not to fall in love with your pretty penmanship as you slid it into his hand, fixing him with that million dollar smile. He had tried not to tell you he wanted to marry you. 

Jimmy hadn’t missed the exchange, certainly hadn’t let him live it down for the next few weeks. He had wiggled his eyebrows at you whenever Flip had called you from the precinct, when he had bumbled his way through the lines he had practiced in his head, had marveled at the fact that you had accepted his invitation for a date, had marveled at the fact that a girl as pretty as you would want to be with him. 

But you had. 

You had gone on dates with him twice, sometimes three times, every week and you had held his hand over dinner and when he had walked you to the door of your apartment you had kissed him so deeply that for a moment he wondered if he had died and gone right up to heaven. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/jewishbensolo) or [tumblr! 💕](http://oberynmartell.tumblr.com)
>
>> 


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